I know I know the PA stories await. By the time I tell them, you'll all be yawning away, but I'm sick, people, sick, and therefore I can not give my full effort to the splendiforous PA stories. I wouldn't want you to miss out on the details of Bunni learning how to shoot a 22 (be afraid very afraid) or the contextual importance of cold beer.


But I don't want you to go through a weekend without your Bunni fix.


Last night Bakerina, her hubby, and I went to see the Brother's Grimm-a Terry Gilliam film. I am a big fan of Gilliam, and no I am not going to put in my film review now because I don't have the focus or the energy for that. (As person well versed in Jungian psychology and symbolic analysis the film would take a great deal of focus for me to coherently dissect.) We managed to get into the theater early, which meant that we got our seats while the credits from the last screening were showing. I was looking at the names thinking "There are way too many Russians working on this film." I said as much to Bakerina, and we were both relieved when we saw that it was filmed in Prague (much like "Seed of Chucky", which was filmed in Roumanai home to one of the largest soundstages in the world, because it was so very very cheap-more fun facts "Seed of Chucky" is actually the cheapest of the Chucky movie even though it has the most "dolls"-three-instead of just one). "Well that's a relief. If it was Belarus, that would have been a different story" I said to Bake, "But Prague is acceptable." It should be remembered that Bake dubbed the Asshat with an Accent "Banjo King of the Shit Weasels." After I was done laughing, I informed her that AA doesn't have the qualities that even shit weasels would look for in a commander and chief. "Honestly, he doesn't strike me as the kind of weasel who could even be trusted with a mop. I think he is more of an assistant janitor to the shit weasels." Unfortunately assistant janitor to the shit weasels doesn't make nearly as good of a t-shirt as King of the Shit Weasels.


And speaking of Russians, Captain Improbably Hot told me yesterday that I speak English like I have a mouth full of bananas. Half way through the lesson another teacher started complimenting me. After she left, he started to make fun of her, and I said "You're just jealous." He didn't know what jealous meant so I said "It's when you want something and someone else gets it. You feel jealous of that person." "Oh yes," he says, "I understand...but what would I do with you once I got you?" I said nothing. "I got you on that one" he smiled. People, I could write a doctoral thesis on what this guy could do to me if he got me. I could write an epic poem to rival the Aeneid on such a topic. (Subtext: We know of course that if Capt Hot ever did anything seriously indicating desire that I would must likely run from the room terrified, but I need something to keep my mind distracted from the continuing horror of my existence.)Still I smiled and kept dancing as fast as I could.


Incidentally, I've been stalking myself again, and I've noticed something. I never get readers from Russia. I get readers from Australia, South Africa, the Netherlands, France, Germany, even Tehran (yesterday) but not Russia. I never talk about these other places, but it seems I have some rather faithful readers in Australia, and Russia, which gets so much screen time, not a single hit. Not one. I think I need to find more things to say about Australia and the Netherlands. Or maybe they like the Russian material. Who can say? Still I feel like I should throw out a reference to Stockholm or marsupials on occassion.


Alright I think I've flaunted my cold incoherence enough. I'm going to go have lunch and take a nap and hopefully wake up more coherent than when I went to sleep.
(title courtesy of Hurly Burly)

I know you are patiently waiting for me to write about the PA trip, and I have lots to write about, but unfortunately I had a staff meeting today. My meeting, which was three hours long and required about nine hours of prep work, went overtime because this pontificating twit has to go on and on about the difference between a composition, an essay, and a paper. Lord have mercy on my immortal soul or at least on the last vestiges of my sanity. I might be more likely to listen to him if I hadn't watched him attempt to place a phone order at the local Chinese take-out.He was so confused by the menu that he had to have a graduate assistant help him and even then he fucked up his order. If you can't figure out the deep inner workings of a Chinese take-out menu, you don't deserve to eat. In fact, it's probably because you're a fucking vegetable, and we should stir fry you with some sesame oil. And this guy is going to tell me how to define an essay? Not fucking likely. Unfortunately he wasted just enough time talking about how to define an essay, like he had spoken to Michel De Montaigne personally that morning on the phone, that I can't give all y'all a quality post without being late for class with my improbably hot dance teacher. And we do not make improbably hot dance teachers wait. Let me tell you as much as I value your readership if God himself stood with a flaming sword at my throat and said "Uh, just stay here for a minute or two" I would still be on time for my Volgograd peach.

So tomorrow I promise the good blogging on PA. Seriously.

I didn't have time to blog some of the important events that happened before I left and in order for you to have the proper context to enjoy my adventures I have to fill you in (as I learned on my vacation even cold beer has context).


The wednesday night before I left I went to Reverend Jen Miller's open mic at Collective Unconscious. (Reverend Jen has starred in the film Elf Panties, which I am wondering if I can add to my netflix queue, and is rumored to have played a role in the most expensive Toxic Avenger film.) She once paid me the compliment of telling me that my set about Paris was "hot" and when a woman who stars in a film called Elf Panties tells you that, I listen.


The set I did was based on this post, which didn't get as many laughs as I expected, but I could feel the audience empathize with me. When I said Vampire Hunter D vanished, I actually heard the audience groan with sadness. Afterwards many people complimented me, and when you add that I did it with no emotional support, the fear of seeing the asshat (until I realized that wednesday is rehearsal night for him and so I was safe), and only half a beer in my system it was quite an accomplishment. When the mic ended I was abducted by a bunch of performers to attend Midnights with Moonshine. There some of the performers who I thought of as Ivan's friends asked me if what I said at the beginning of my set was true (I went into my monologue by saying "Sometimes life imitates a bad comedy premise, and my boyfriend just broke up with me" partially because two or three people had already asked me if Ivan was coming and so I thought I could use the monologue to end any and all questions about that.) And I said yes, and then he paused for a moment. "I'm really sorry," he said, "but you really need a guy who speaks better English" another pause "and is taller." Now when someone tells me that I need a guy who is taller, that's entertainment. "Yes" I told him, "it was kind of sad how we would both look longing at the top shelf of the supermarket." What shocks me is how easily his "friends" have turned against him once they know we aren't together. I mean even the Buddhist would defend me, I guess being a depressed alcoholic Russian doesn't breed a lot of brand loyalty especially when there is a bodacious tata possessing girl in the equation. Still I managed to enslave a few of male performers, which is never a bad thing.


Two Lawn Chairs and a Milk Carton


Thursday during my dance class my improbably hot dance teacher (for those of you who saw the comp. pictures he was the one molestering me while I was wearing the bunny slippers) asked me to go have drinks with him later. Oh sure I have to pack and clean the apartment and go grocery shopping, but you have to understand I have lusted after this guy for a year. The things I want to do this man aren't even legal in New Jersey. Hell, they aren't legal in Thailand. This is not a man I can say no to in any language...ever. So tired and overwhelmed by stuff as I am I say "Sure" and he agrees to call me later.


Will someone PLEASE explain to me where the hell Russian men got the idea that being depressed about not being in their homeland is sexy? Please, I have to know.


We go out for drinks, and he is asking all the "hot sex later alert" questions, do I have a boyfriend, what time do I have to get up for work, was my last boyfriend a russian, do I live alone, and I'm freaking out about the condition of my apartment, but still, I love this man. Seriously all muscly and snuggly oh do I love this man. Still I'm thinking "I can't do this. I really can't. He's my teacher. I have to deal with him professionally twice a week." But he's leaning in so close, whispering into my ear, translating russian jokes which are so desperately not funny, and I can't hear half of what he's saying, but I'm laughing out of nervous energy-he's touching my shoulder, my hand, his arm around my shoulders-so close- I can see the tattoo on his arm, his shirt is tight, and I can't help but wonder what he looks like without it-he's kissed me so many times on the cheek I can feel the kiss in advance soft but passionate-insistent without being overwhelming. We sit on my front step and all of the sudden the depression about the homeland-I have no friends, I can't talk to people, American women are awful, well except you, but you are not like American women (what the hell am I like an American bald eagle?) and I'm thinking "What is this? the Volgagrad idea of foreplay? Shmuck has read Crime and Punishment a few too many times." I was thinking I was going to have to fend off passionate embraces and yet as usual I become the free shrink and end up fending off a fugue state. And I hate to say it I'm so sick of emigrant angst I could puke hot blood from my eyeballs. I'm sorry but I've just heard it a little too much to have any sympathy anymore-have a shot of stolichnaya and get the fuck over it already. (That is the Russian version of Richard Pryor's advice "Have a coke and a smile and shut the fuck up.")Finally he apologies, kisses me on the shoulder and walks home at two thirty in the morning. I'm left on my doorstep, arms open, hands upturned towards the sky, looking at the stars thinking, "What the fuck just happened? What the fuck just happened?"


But it doesn't matter because I need to go in and sleep for three hours so I can wake up and get my ass ready to be Pantless in the Poconos.